


You're Fine

by Shinocchi



Category: DRAMAtical Murder (Visual Novel), DRAMAtical Murder - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Ending, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Character Study, Dirty Talk, Hand Jobs, M/M, Nipple Play, Orgasm Delay/Denial, POV Second Person, selfcest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-04
Updated: 2016-02-04
Packaged: 2018-05-18 05:09:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5899441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shinocchi/pseuds/Shinocchi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Since when did they stop calling each other's name just because they were too afraid that it'd become a curse that set themselves apart? And since when did 'Aoba' belong to one and only one person?</p><p>You're fine, more than fine, actually.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You're Fine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fio13](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fio13/gifts).



> This is perhaps the first different writing style fic I publish here with a second person point of view.  
> I find writing second pov with selfcest a remarkable experience and a fruitful challenge because it's not only that you're referring to another person in this pov but you're also referring to yourself and you will hit the right 'holy shit' spot if you do it correctly.
> 
> I hope I hit that spot.
> 
> Also, this is a very, very late birthday gift for [Fio](http://archiveofourown.org/users/fio13), my best sister and best beta who's always been there through ups and downs with me. Thank you :')  
> And I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it <3

It was an unbelievable experience to have someone that was an extra persona of yourself being so close to you; right next to you, breathing, very much alive, and very much rich of expression. It was even more surreal to know that that very person was none other but yourself, who once resided within you, grew within you, and who was the only person who knew you, inside out, better than anyone else. Sometimes, when you touch his skin, feel the texture under your palm and smell in the scent of his hair, you would hear the familiar sigh of relief in your head again, finding yourself gripping whichever inch of skin you could reach, caressing, worshipping, appreciating. You know this could be just another illusion you give yourself, that you would probably find yourself gripping nothing but air at the end of the day and everything you’re feeling with your five senses now are simply reality that is too good to be true. You are afraid, but you know you aren’t the only one.

Because you know he’s afraid too, perhaps even more than yourself.

 

* * *

 

The morning you wake up by his side, he is still asleep, breathing calm, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You want to touch him but you don’t know how you should do it, so you simply stare at him, scanning him with your eyes, taking in every details of that cheekbones, that small curve at the corners of his lips, that long eyelashes, and everything that look the same as yours. You know that it’d be completely different if he is to wake up. Because then he’d give you a smile so sinister you could hardly see yourself in it. And then, he’d lift your chin up, his eyes glimmering gold as he penetrate his gaze into yours. You know that by that time, you’d lose track of your own mind, as if his pair of eyes is a hidden power of Scrap that you never know.

Scrap belongs to him anyway, and you never know a lot about this power in the first place.

He shifts just a bit and you find yourself fidgeting. Just a little. You are not prepared yet. You don’t know what to do when he is to wake up, although deep inside, you know that there’s hardly anything that you need to do. You swallow down your throat, hear your own heart picking up speed and before you know it, you’re looking at him, eyes unable to move away as he opens his eyes, blinks – once, twice – and finally, locking his gaze at you.

“You’ve been staring, huh?”

As expected, you never know how to respond to him. All that you can do is letting out a small chuckle before you move your stare away, wanting to conceal this awkwardness before he turns sideways and wraps an arm around your waist, stopping you from doing exactly so.

“So how does it feel looking into a mirror? Have you gotten used to it?” he asks, with a smirk so bizarrely suggestive that it’s the only thing you had expected from him.

“I don’t know.” And you really don’t. You don’t lie, because you know he can see it; he can read your mind, even though you aren’t sure if it’s a power of his or if you’re simply too easy to read. “It still feels weird.”

You’re expecting another retaliation, maybe a punch on the head. But none of them come. Instead, you continue staring as the smile gradually fades from his face, as he turns his back towards you and sits up, walking out of the room then without another word.

***

Even when it’d been almost a month, you could still tell from the way your grandmother looks at him that she’s not perfectly convinced of his existence. It’s all an intangible thought after all. In the end of the day, he, like you, are something that’s _made_ , not _born_. She couldn’t understand how he’s able to obtain another body, one that’s the same as yours, and you couldn’t explain to her either. Because there are so many things that you don’t understand yourself that you have no confidence that you’re believing in the right thing.

You would sometimes find yourself waking up at night, sweating profusely as you turn to look at him again, just to make sure that he’s still by your side. And you would lift a careful hand to touch his hair, play with the soft tips, caress his skin, just to make sure that he _is_ there that you let your tension loose and allow yourself to fall back to sleep.

The thought of losing him is a nightmare of your own; something that’s been keeping you up at deep hours at night for the first few weeks since you feel his warmth so clearly on your skin.

Losing him is the last thing you want. Because you don’t want your hope to be taken away when it’s been granted to you. At this point, you would only have yourself to blame if you’re to lose what is granted to you.

But there are answers that you don’t know and everything is exasperating you and you _don’t know_ what you should do. You want answers, but you don’t want to pester him – you know it yourself, he knows it too, that you’re too afraid to probe on him.

Because he might not be concrete, like how your grandmother has seen it.

And for all you know, you might accidentally hit a button that would take him away from you.

Forever.

 

* * *

 

Spending time with him is the best way you know to keep him by your side. He might disappear at times but he would always come back. You want to trust in that. And he always proves you right.

But even after a month, you could still hardly find out what is really in his mind – sometimes he would give you the smirk that you’d known since you knew him from the first time; but sometimes, he’d fall silent, sinking into his own thought and that’s the time that you feel so powerfully that he’s so out of reach, so unattainable, so… invisible.

It worries you; it scares you. You want to ask but you’re terrified. You could see the undistinguished grief on his face and you want to ask what you can do to help, what is it that’s bothering him but he chooses to face it himself, and it reminds it of yourself, making you laugh silently all the time upon realizing that he’s _you_ after all, but why is he so far away now? Why is it that he’s not telling you anything?

And why is it so unfair for him to have the mind-reading power you desperately need?

So when he falls silent again, laying all by himself on the bed, eyes stick on the ceiling while you sit by the old computer model in a corner of the room, you hear the many familiar questions in your head again.

Should you approach him? Should you call out to him? Is there anything you can do with him now? Should you even do anything?

You hate yourself for this. You hate yourself for unable to do _anything_ to help yourself.

Feeling the fury rising to your throat, you frown, clench your fist and walk towards him at long last. This could not go on.

You feel like you’re losing him and you cannot let it happen.

He only gives you a quick stare when you approach him, visibly curious. But that’s all he does. You sink beside him, lifting a smile that you hope he’d see before you open your mouth, suddenly find it hard to talk.

“Hey.” You hear your own voice in your head now – _don’t panic_ – and it’s a strange experience because you are used to hearing _his_ voice in your head, not your own.

He looks at you again. This time, he doesn’t look away, eyes impatient but inquisitive.

“Do you have anything you want to tell me?” There, you did it. You need a pat on the shoulder.

His eyes widened, but just for a bit. That itself tells you a lot. Before you know it, your mind is running on a treadmill. You try to understand why he’s acting so surprised like that, and you feel like you are touching on a point that you have never dared to approach.

You feel like you have finally found a sense of purpose in your life.

“I don’t have mind-reading ability like you,” you admit, completely blunt. “You need to tell me what’s in your mind for me to understand.”

A thin frown appears in between his eyebrows and you find a squeeze in your chest. You did something wrong, is the first impression you garner from his reaction. You said something wrong, and now you have done it – he’s not going to tell you anything anymore.

“I don’t have mind-reading ability,” he says, catching you off your thinking cap. “You’re just too easy to read.”

This isn’t the first time you’ve been told this way. But that’s not something you could do either, that’s just how you are.

“Am I not easy to read?” He throws the question back at you with a familiar smirk drawn on his face. You don’t know what to say. You’re afraid that you might say the wrong thing again. So you keep your mouth shut, cold sweat rolling down your back. You have never been so intimidated by a person in your entire life and that person _has_ to be yourself.

“I guess not,” he answers his own question. “Because for the entire time, it’s _me_ who’s been desperately trying to communicate with you anyway.”

“I…” You feel like you’re slowly getting what he’s trying to say. Is he angry at how impassive you were towards him before? Is that why he hasn’t been telling you anything? Does he not trust you? Is this a revenge?

You shake your head. This is _yourself_ that you’re talking about. _You_ don’t seek for revenge. And despite how different he is with you, you know that he’s not like that.

You trust him. You _want_ to trust him.

“So?” His smirk lifts higher. “You were saying?”

“I…” you start again. You cannot leave this conversation open. “I’m sorry.”

He hitches a breath, and you cannot understand why he does.

“I didn’t mean for you to apologize,” he says, voice small. “I… well, nothing.”

This _isn’t_ nothing. The composure returns to you, you mount yourself onto the bed, facing him on the same eye level as you give him a penetrating stare, as piercing as the one he always gives you.

“You need to tell me what’s in your head.” You’re surprised with the volume of your own voice. You don’t mean to reprimand him but he’s pushing you up the wall. It worries you; it scares you. “I want to help you. Please, tell me.”

You didn’t mean to beg him either. But you’re really frightened. You don’t want to wake up to an empty bed and you don’t want to miss him again. You want to return all the favour he has been giving you throughout the years you have been dismissing him. You want to _do something_ for him.

He laughs. His voice resounds stridently in the space. He’s not looking at you but he’s suddenly grabbing your hands, squeezing it, to the extent that you can feel your bones crushing against each other beneath your skin.

“Where were you when you were supposed to beg for me?” he asks instead. It’s an awakened remorse you know that has been lurking around in the deepest corner of your heart but you refuse to acknowledge it – until now.

“I’m sorry I took so long but I really want to know what’s up with you now. I…” You could already feel the word at the tip of your tongue but you bite it back, taking a deep breath to refill the lost air into your lungs. “…I don’t want to lose you.”

It must be an illusion, you tell yourself. Because there’s no way he would tremble; not the way you feel a faint shivering on your hand, where he’s seizing you.

“Lose me…?” he repeats, a face of disbelief. “You… don’t want to lose me?”

“Of course!” you reaffirms, sensing an opportunity to break his shell. “It’s so hard to have you by my side and now that I can finally feel you, I can—“ you break, lifting his hands up and grasping them right in front of his eyes. “—hold you like this, I don’t want to ever lose you. You are _me_! Can’t you understand? Can’t your… whatever mind-reading ability tell you how anxious I am when it comes to you? I’m sorry for whatever I’ve done, but please, can you please let me repent for it? Can you please tell me what’s in your head? Can you—“

You thought he’s about to hit you, you definitely didn’t expect him to suck the air out of your mouth… with his mouth.

It’s the best way to make you shut up and he’s learned about it – he learns so fast. You’re weak against his kisses, you’re weak against the way he touches you, the way he _stares_ at you, the way he uses all his limbs and touches in a way that would turn you limp. It’s unfair. How did he manage to learn so much about you when you know _nothing_ about him and that you’re supposed to be _him_?

It’s unfair.

You want to do something for him. You want to be as good as him. You want to make him moan like he makes you. You want to see him lose himself and drown in pleasure and you want him to know that _you_ are the one who’s making him feel so.

So you push yourself towards him, pushing your tongue deeper into his mouth, feeling his clutch tightens on your wrist and softens when you topple him on the bed, hovering over him with him staring suggestively into your face.

“What is this? Switching play?”

You want to learn more about him, you repeat that in your head. You want him to learn more about you. And you want to tell him that you’re capable of making him lose himself too, just like how he’s able to do that to you.

Because he’s _you_ after all. Because both of you are—

“Aoba.” You bend down after a whispering call of his name – of _your_ name. He’s surprisingly obedient and you feel a weight lifted off your chest. Good. He can keep staying put in this way and you’ll do all the job for him. You know where his best spots are, you know how to touch him the way he likes it; because you know how touching _yourself_ is like and he shouldn’t be feeling otherwise.

“Don’t move,” you say, sensing a movement from beneath you. He does as he’s told, but you know his eyes are on you and for some reason, the tension is returning to you, painting a layer of white all over your head all of a sudden.

“This is a punishment for not telling me anything,” you frown, attempting to muster the very last bit of dignity you have left.

“Punishment?” he leers. “Sounds more like a reward to me.”

“Shh,” you push a finger against his lips. “Keep quiet.”

He has Scrap and you wonder if that’s the reason why you fall into his seduction trap so easily. His voice is dangerous and you don’t want to lose the upper hand you’d just earned yourself now. You need to focus on your job – you need to make him feel good.

You take his shirt off in swift movement, then his pants, everything. Staring at his body is like staring at yourself in the mirror, like how he’d perfectly put it. But this isn’t the time to be distracted, even when the voice returns to your head, telling how skimpy you really are. You never notice a lot of things about your own body, and sometimes you wonder if you have unintentionally shooing the thought out of your own head. Because your body isn’t one thing that you want to be proud of, above everything else that you deem to be more important. But as you lower your eyes to _his_ body – _your_ body – you suddenly feel how very imprudent you once were.

This body is beautiful. You trace the outline of his torso, remembering the scar where you got slashed is, carefully caressing the faded wound with an index finger. You remember where your ticklish spot is, and wonder if he would laugh like you do if you’re to poke on it. You remember how you are more sensitive on the right nipple than on the left. You remember how you would make a funny jerk if you are to place a palm on your abdomen.

And you hitch a breath when he does exactly so when you did exactly that, taking you in mild amusement.

Ah, he’s you after all. You suddenly find relief within you as you wrap your palms around his waist, leaning down so that you could press your ear to where his heart is.

You close your eyes, listening to his heartbeats drumming against your ear – a proof of existence. You slip your hands upwards, reaching to where his nipples are, giving both of them a teasing, light pinch before you roll them harder between both of your fingers, rubbing, pressing, until you hear a low moan that you look up, delighted to see that his hands are clutching onto the sheet, gritting his teeth as he shoot you a gaze that spells of nothing but arousal.

“Your right nipple is harder than your left,” you tease.

“You did that on purpose,” he returns a grin.

“I did,” you admit. “Because I know.”

You don’t know how the last words slopped out of you but you regret nothing. Bracing yourself up, you stretch a hand, reaching to your bedside table, pulling the drawer open to tug out a bottle of lube you know he’d hidden there with his ‘just in case’ excuse.

He gives you a glint of pleased look and you know that he’s been reading your mind again. You’re too easy to read. You know that, but you also know that this is the first time you are doing the pleasure job and you want to shut your easy-to-read self off just so you could give him the arousal he needs.

“Say,” he speaks, out of the blue. “Do you know how long it’d take for me to be able to take in three fingers then?”

His question is upfront, as shameless as you would expect from him but you return his smirk with one of your own, coating two fingers with lube at the same time before you bring both of them to where his hole is.

“Usually _I_ would take not less than five thrusts, ten minutes at the most. But you,” you say, casting an interested glance at where his hole is twitching in anticipation. “I’d say not less than five thrusts, five minutes the most, with two fingers.”

He’s visibly flabbergasted but he’s quick to return the grin to his face, lifting his legs up at the same time and holding them back behind the knees.

“Try me.”

You don’t like to be provoked because you know you would fall for it. But you did, and there’s nothing you could do to stop yourself because the moment you push your fingers into his hole you could physically feel your _own_ hole twitching with need. Every push makes you feel as if you’re fingering yourself, every moan that you hear from him makes you feel as if you’re stimulating _yourself_ than doing it for him. He doesn’t sound exactly the same like you but you could hear your own tone in his voice and you feel like you’re listening to a recording of your own sex voices and it’s so hard not to get turned on and focus. You shove more speed into your thrusts, almost blindly but you know what you’re looking for. It’s hard to tell when you finger someone that’s not yourself but it’s you in this angle but you don’t want to lose the edge you have in your hand and you know it’s there, it’s _gotta be there_.

When he arches and let out a struggled moan, you know that you have hit it. A reflexive smile lifted on your face as you pull one hand to hold onto his waist, steadying him in position and keep thrusting at the same place, over and over and over again until you add in a third finger and thrust harder that has him ultimately gripping so hard on your hand on his wrist that you stop, worried that you’re being too harsh.

“Four minutes and eighteen thrusts,” he breathes out, accompanied by a sneer.

“Y-you seriously counted…”

“It’s a competition, isn’t it?”

“It’s not!” you pout. You’re too lost in yourself that you forgot that you’re supposed to make him feel good. Instead, you find yourself turning on the more you thrust into him and it’s something so magical that you’re lost faster than he does.

It’s almost like you’re fingering yourself.

“Now, allow me.”

He isn’t supposed to do anything but you are edging at the brink of losing yourself that you only come back to yourself when his whole palm is dripping with lube, inching to your erection and you almost throw your own conscious out of the window when he seizes a handful of your dick, rubbing it up and down, up and down, as aggressive as the way you did to him earlier.

“I can feel it,” his voice drops to a whisper, clouding your mind with a thicker layer of want. “Can you?”

You don’t know what to say – of course you can feel it. _How_ can you not feel it? He knows where your best spots are and he knows how you like your dick to be rubbed the way you love it. He knows everything about your body and he knows you like the back of his own hand.

 _How_ can you not love it?

You could almost feel yourself coming when you push his hand away. This is not about you but him. You need to remind yourself about it.

So you grab your own dick the moment it’s released off his grip, position it against his hole as you elevate a diffident look at him, just to make sure that he’s alright.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, legs spread wide, elbows supporting his body up, just enough for you to make out the deep flush on his cheekbones. “Aren’t you trying to make me feel good? Try hitting _that_ spot in one push, will you?”

He’s obviously aggravating you and once again you find yourself falling into his trap. You _know_ where the spot is, you already found it just now. So with one pointed thrust, you hit it, feeling his insides clenching around you and hearing two sets of similar voices moaning at the same time.

“D-don’t squeeze so hard,” you struggle, trying to move but he’s locking you down so hard that you can’t even move an inch. He’s laughing again, but he sounds like he’s out of breath and it’s good news to you because then you know that he’s feeling _so good_ that he’s barely clinging to his composure.

“It’s been a while since I feel like this and it has to be _you_ who’s making me feel this way,” he says, breathing short. You feel like he’s about to say something important so you brace yourself, gripping his thighs and try your biggest might to pull yourself out and push in again, out and in, out and in, again and again, again and again.

“Ah, yes, good!” His moans and his words are giving you shivers because you know this is how _you_ act when you’re completely shameless, when you throw your dignity away and put your body, your emotions, all in the hands of someone you can completely trust. You are not sure if you could reach this level of shamelessness even when you are completely gone in pleasure. But he’s _you_ and you can see _yourself_ in the way you lose yourself and it makes you wonder how you aren’t able to push that very part of yourself out when _he_ could do it so easily?

“Deeper.” His legs are wrapping your waist now, pulling you closer, wanting you to lose yourself with him. “You know where it is right? Deeper, there, there, yes! Yes! More!”

You couldn’t catch up with him. You already know that he’s feeling good and that should be enough. You have proven to him that you could do it, that you could make him lose himself like the way he does to you. But something’s missing.

You move your hand, reaching to where his dick is leaking abundant precum and rub on it, the way he did it to you. You know how to push him to his edge but you press a finger against the slit, stopping him, already flinching at the thought of how excruciating this would be.

“What…”

“You haven’t told me what I want to know.” You stop your motion, managed to pull yourself back to your own edge at the last minute. “What is it that’s bothering you?”

This is the worst time to be asking this question and you can see it on his face. His lust is still intense on his face but you know he’s frustrated and you are too but having sex alone is not the point of this lust-driven moment. If he’s not going to talk, you’ll have to force it out from him. And this is the best time to do so, you can’t let the opportunity slip.

This is the only part of his that’s different from you after all – the part that puts a thin fine line between the both of you: for he’s Desire-driven, and you’re Reason-driven.

“What do you want to know?” He’s wearing a deep scowl on his face and you almost feel sorry for him but this needs to be done. This is the only advantage you have over him.

Then, all of a sudden, you found the answer for yourself – you are always hesitate to let yourself out because you are _Reason_ , your rational voice is your biggest obstacle. But he’s not – he’s _Desire_ and he repels restraints: that’s the only difference between both of you.

And now that you’re dangling his desire in mid-air, it’s undoubtedly the best way to make him talk – by using your best reasoning self.

“What’s in your mind? What are you thinking about? What are you keeping away from me?”

He smirks, almost sarcastically. “That’s too many questions.”

“Spill them out.” You need to be firmed. This is your only chance.

He looks away. He’s finding for words, you know that. But you want to hear it from him. You _need_ to hear it from him.

“You should know,” he finally says. “What is troubling _you_ is troubling me. We are not much different when it comes to that.”

It takes you a while but you finally understand. You feel like your world is suddenly cracking, as if you’ve just discovered a whole new piece of land that’s invisible from your vision from before.

“You…” you start and, like him, you don’t know what the right word to say is.

You aren’t very much different, after all.

Words have failed you. You lean down, cupping his face, smiling at him, looking him in his eyes with as much tenderness as you could muster.

“You’re real,” you say, like a sweet whisper. Then, you give him a kiss, feeling warmer when he presses back against your lips. “You’re so, so real.”

He wraps a hand around your body and you could feel it again, the thumping of his vicious heart, beating with yours like one. You’re both one person after all. If you exist, _he_ exists too. You never realize it yourself, never come to acknowledge it until you need to comfort him – who’s as insecure as you are.

You love how passionate he is when he presses his tongue against you, rubbing his dick in between your bodies as both of you drunken yourself in deep, wet kisses. You love spoiling him like this, you love to take charge of him and tell him that he’s real and that you _want_ him to be real. If **Aoba** exists, then _both of you_ should exist.

That’s all you need to know. Really, why did it take so long for you to realize it? What’s the point of being Reason if you can’t even comfort your Desire?

Still hugging each other tightly, you start a pace again. This time, you take it slow, wanting to indulge in every inch of warmth you could feel from him, wanting to reignite the nostalgia within him, and wanting him to know that one could feel so contented like this and one can definitely feel so loved like this in a way one could hardly imagine.

You don’t need to be Reason to be real, and he doesn’t need to be Desire to be unreal. Both of you are _one_ Aoba and both of you should know it better than anyone else. Since when you are you and he is him? Since when did you stop calling each other’s name just because you feel as if you’re going to lose each other one day? And since when did something unusual becomes a perception of something unreal?

Since when is Desire not real? And since when is Reason the only real persona ‘Aoba’ could have?

When you are connected so fervently as one in this way, it’s when you could wholly melt into one in each other’s hands. It’s the only time when you feel that you’re one and not two.

You should be you, not him, not he, but you, not even _both_ of you. And it becomes all the more apparent when you scream each other’s name at the same time – the same name, all the same.

Because it should be this way, since the very beginning.

 


End file.
